Gallant
by shadowed memory
Summary: Dallas Winston is the toughest, fiercest, meanest, and most feared hood in Tulsa, Oklahoma. But even that will not save him......


Disclaimer: Everything belongs to S.E. Hinton. Everything, even the dialogue. I wish it were mine, since I think this story is one of my good ones, but there you are. Sigh.  
  
Gallant  
  
My name is Dallas Winston. I am the toughest, fiercest, meanest, and most feared hood in Tulsa, Oklahoma. But I was not always the way that I am now.  
  
Everyone thinks that I hate kids. I do. They're annoying, and bratty, and innocent. But besides hating them, I envy them. Everyone also thinks that I was never a little kid like the other greasers were. I guess their memories aren't in great shape. There was a time when I was more innocent - a junior greaser, yes, but not yet a hood.  
  
I was nine when we moved to New York City. At the time the gang wasn't really the gang yet - we hung out together, but there were only Darrel Curtis, a tuff twelve years old; Keith Mathews (soon to be Two-Bit) at ten; Steve Randle, and Sodapop Curtis, both eight; and me. We hadn't even met Johnny yet; and six year old Ponyboy Curtis, Soda and Darry's brother, was too young to hang with us at that time.  
  
But NYC was different from Oklahoma. Glory, it was different. In Tulsa we had always admired the greasers and knew that we would be like them soon. But us, and the Shepards and their crew, were still kids. We gambled off candy through poker and marbles, but we never got in knife fights about who owed who a Hershey's bar. We tussled for small reasons but never, ever pulled a switchblade. We pick-pocketed chewing gum and licorice from the convenience store, but only Darry had ever tried a cancer stick, and he wasn't into it two much. At twelve he was already working to be a muscle man.  
  
Like I said, the city was different. As soon as I got there, a gang at school noticed me and started to beat the lights out of me. Luckily, their rivals saw and attacked them. I then joined their group, the Stingrays. All the gang members ranged from eight to thirteen years old; it was a junior gang. And they only fought other junior gangs. If they were jumped by a real gang, their older brother gang would help them out. But even though we were young, life wasn't any easier. I got my first blade in New York, and learned to throw it, stab with it, and get someone else's knife away from them. I took target practice with a heater in case I'd ever have to use it in a fight. I smoked and drank and fought and stole like a maniac.  
  
I first got arrested at age ten for mugging a couple of tourists from Virginia. That started the chain of visits to jail. My old man couldn't care less, but it made my mom very sad. I think my mom was one of the few people I loved. She didn't understand me, or know how to help me, but she always loved and cared about me. And I cared for her too. I would have stopped all the delinquent acts that I did just for her, but I would not have been able to survive in New York like that.  
  
In the end, it was the criminals that took us back to Tulsa - not mine, but someone else's. My mother was killed in a drive-by shooting, and my father couldn't take it any more. He hitched me back to Oklahoma and completely ignored me as soon as we got there. Luckily, I had my old friends back, along with a new addition to the gang, Johnny Cade. They were all shocked to see how the twelve year old Dally was so tough and fierce. For a while I think they were all scared of me, but Darry could always keep me in hand physically. And his mother was something special. I tried to make myself not love her, but she almost took the place of my own mother. She understood me and tried to make me see the world lightly. It was a hard thing to do. I had already formed the notion that only being tough and making a hard shell around yourself could protect you. But still, I was not yet so bitter of life.  
  
That only happened after another six years, when Mr. and Mrs. Curtis had died. Now the Curtises were orphans - and so was I, in a way, for my father never cared for me and my mother was dead. The only other almost-orphan was Johnny, in the same position, but with both parents. He took it a lot harder than I did though, and the Curtis brothers always had each other to rely on. But Johnny had no one but the gang, no family to help him. And my stone cold heart somehow reached out to him, this boy who had never known love from the people who should have loved him the most.  
  
So I looked after Johnny for a long time, in subtle ways. He was the whole gang's pet, but mostly mine. I could tell that he looked up to me and tried to be a good role model, though I didn't really know what that was any more. I went easy on him for lots of things. And somehow, he gave a bit of himself to me too. I grew to depend on him although trying to keep my unbreakable shell. When he was jumped by the Socs that time, I could hardly even look at him because it hurt me to see him so scared. I hated his father for every blow that he dealt, and his mother for every cruel comment that she gave him. I didn't realize it, but I cared for Johnny a lot. Too much.  
  
And then our quiet, scared little Johnnycake killed a Soc when he and Ponyboy were attacked by them. They came to me for help - Johnny knew that I would help him. I was shocked, but I knew that if they didn't get out of there, Johnny would be given the electric chair. I sent them to hide in Windrixville, in the country. I helped them as much as I could. I was not really worried about Ponyboy much, because although he was young and quiet, he could adapt and survive better than Johnny. Johnny was better at doing things for other people, like saving Ponyboy from the Socs who were drowning him, than taking care of himself.  
  
For a week I sat worrying about the two of them. Finally I went up to Windrixville after I couldn't stand it any longer. To my relief, both Johnny and Pony were fine, though bored and half-starved. I took them to Dairy Queen for a bite and told them the latest news.  
  
Then Johnny dropped the bomb right on top of me. He said he was going to go back and turn himself in to the police.  
  
I didn't know what to think. Jail is worse than Johnny could ever imagine. It was jail, not the streets of New York, that made me the way I am. The fuzz were slave drivers and tyrants, forcing pain and suffering and insults at us and trying to defeat us in any way possible. Instead, it made me harder. But Johnny was too sensitive. He would break in jail.  
  
But what could I say to Johnny? I knew that they could not hide out in that crummy little church forever. I still tried to convince him; then I was bitter, saying, "Blast it, Johnny, why didn't you think of turning yourself in five days ago? It would have saved a lot of trouble." I didn't mean it, but I had to say it.  
  
He answered, "I was scared. I still am." But he faced the fear, and it was not for himself. It was for Pony; he felt bad that Darry and Soda were worrying and that Pony was there hiding out with him. That doing-stuff-for- others junk again. I hated it. But what could I do? I realized that I would do the same for Johnny, just as I had for Two-Bit when he broke the school windows and I went to jail for it. If I liked the person, I would do something for them.  
  
In a last attempt, I let out my weak side to the boys. "Johnny," I said pleadingly, staring guiltily at his sad face, "Johnny, I ain't mad at you. I just don't want you to get hurt. You don't know what a few months in jail can do to you. Oh, blast it, Johnny, you get hardened in jail. I don't want that to happen to you. Like it happened to me."  
  
I could feel Ponyboy staring at me in shock. I had never let out that side of me to anyone but his mother, and he knew it. But Johnny didn't look all that surprised, just sad and apprehensive. "Would you rather have me living in hide-outs for the rest of my life, always on the run?"  
  
I began to consider it, but then something caught my eye. The church that they had been hiding it was on fire! "Oh glory," I whispered.  
  
All of a sudden, Ponyboy jumped out. "Let's go see what the deal is," he said.  
  
"What for? Get back in here before I beat your head in," I growled. But the kid didn't listen. Johnnycake followed him in a snap. I cursed to myself and went to park the car. Then I jumped out and looked around for them.  
  
Suddenly, I saw them. They were running into the blasted burning church! I didn't bother to ask what was going on, I just ran towards them. Then I could hear the screams of children from inside the church. I thought a string of curses in my head. Why would they do such a stupid thing for some kids they didn't even know? That was the difference between us. I would stick up for my friends through thick and thin (unless they did something to me) but I'd be darned before I did something for a stranger. Shoot, I once beat up a stranger for asking me to move over a bit at the cashier counter in a store. But they were risking their blasted lives to save some stupid kids.  
  
I ran up to the window where they had gotten in and looked through it frantically. Suddenly Pony ran up, with an armful of bratty, screaming kid, which he dropped next to me. "For Pete's sake, get outa there!" I cried. "That roof's gonna cave in any minute. Forget those blasted kids!"  
  
He ignored me and rushed back into the flames. I swore again, but I was too big to get through that crack. Pony and Johnny came back with the last kids. Johnny pushed Ponyboy out and I grabbed him, hurling him through the hole. His back was on flames and I beat them out.  
  
Then abruptly, the roof began to cave in. A beam of smoldering wood broke and fell right on Johnny. "No!" I screamed, dropping Ponyboy. I crashed through the window and yanked Johnny from underneath the log, them pulled him out as quickly as I could. My arm was burning but I didn't notice or care. Then both of collapsed on to the grass, just as the ambulance arrived.  
  
When I awoke, they were just bringing me into the hospital. Johnny was on a stretcher in front of me, but he was unconscious. Pony was sitting in the waiting room, doing just that. I grinned in spite of myself to see that he was fine. "Don't you ever pull a trick like that on me again, you filthy little thing, or I'll beat the tar outa you," I told him as we passed by. He smiled in relief.  
  
The days at the hospital were quite boring. They wouldn't tell me much about Johnny, and they wouldn't let any of the gang in to see me until the next day. That part of time is really not too important. First Tim Shepard came and gloated to me about how I'd be missing the upcoming rumble. I was expecting some others soon. But when Ponyboy and Two-Bit did show, they looked sober and worried. I knew that they had just gone in to see Johnny.  
  
I tried to lighten myself up but inside I was deeply worried. I even apologized to Ponyboy, who's a pretty good kid, for almost killing him. But then I had to ask about Johnny.  
  
Two-Bit and Pony looked at each other uneasily. "We just left him," Two-Bit finally said. "I don't know about stuff like this.but.well, he seemed pretty bad to me. He passed out cold before we left him."  
  
My heart sank. I knew Johnny wanted to live, but like I said, he had given up trying to do things for himself long ago. I clenched teeth and swore, trying not to cry. Then I asked Two-Bit to lend me his famous black-handled switchblade. He gave it over willingly, as I'd known he would. Then that night I threatened the nurse with it so that she let me out. I hitched a ride to the vacant lot and ran in just as the rumble was beginning, even though one arm was in a sling.  
  
The rumble was pretty okay. We beat the dirty Socs real good. But I was too worried to even think about it. I grabbed Ponyboy and ran to my car. Somehow I tricked a policeman into giving us an escort to the hospital, but I don't remember how.  
  
In the car I let a little more of myself out to Pony out of frustration. "I was crazy, you know that, kid? Crazy for wantin' Johnny to stay outa trouble, for not wantin' him to get hard. If he'd been like me he'd never have been in this mess. If he'd got smart like me he'd never have run into that church. That's what you get for helpin' people. Editorials in the paper and a lot of trouble.you'd better wise up, Pony.you get tough like me and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothin' can touch you."  
  
But even as I was saying it, I knew that I was wrong. Because Pony will survive; like I said, he can adapt. But a hard shell is sometimes too stiff to agree with change, and will split. Also, the shell only works on the outside. But mine was rotting from the inside. I could hear it cracking in my head as I drove.  
  
We reached the hospital and I pulled Ponyboy out of the car. He seemed a little dazed too, but I was hurrying. We ran past the guards and saw Johnny's doctor. "I'm sorry, boys, but he's dying," he said softly before we could say a word.  
  
I pulled Two-Bit's switchblade out on the doctor. But he let us in anyway, and there was Johnny, lying quietly, as if he were already dead. "Johnnycake?" I said, my throat hoarse. "Johnny?"  
  
Johnny opened his eyes slowly. "Hey," he whispered.  
  
"We won," I gasped. "We beat the Socs. We stomped them - chased them outa our territory." But Johnny just looked sad.  
  
"Useless.fighting's no good." He was deathly pale, I thought, then swore at myself for using that term.  
  
"They're still writing editorials about you in the paper. For being a hero and all," I rushed on, trying not to think. "Yeah, they're calling you a hero now and heroizin' all the greasers. We're all proud of you, buddy." At that Johnny's eyes shone like stars, and he tried to smile at me.  
  
Then he whispered something to Pony, which I didn't quite hear. But I didn't care. He sounded as if he was saying his last goodbyes to both of us. Which he was.  
  
Then he just died.  
  
I gulped and bent over to push Johnny's hair out of his face. "Never could keep that hair back.that's what you get for tryin' to help people, you little punk, that's what you get." I spun around abruptly and slammed against the wall. I was biting my lip and stretching my face and sweat was pouring down my forehead. "Damnit, Johnny," I pleaded, slamming my hand against the wall, "oh, damnit, Johnny, don't die, please don't die."  
  
But I knew it was hopeful. My shell had rotted inside out and was lying in the floor, shattered into thousands of people. "You get tough like me, and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothing can touch you," I remembered myself saying. But my problem was that the people I cared about never looked out for themselves. They looked out for others instead. And that was my mistake too. If I had kept to myself, someone's death wouldn't have affected me.  
  
But now it did.  
  
Suddenly I ran out, forgetting about Ponyboy and began to run. I felt my heater bouncing around in my pocket. I was running pretty aimlessly until I saw a tiny, lonely little grocery store. Then I knew what I had to do.  
  
I went in and pretended to bring some food and drinks to the counter. Then I held up the gun and threatened the guy there, who looked like he was going to faint. After that I beat it out of there to a payphone, where I called the Curtis home. I knew that the whole gang would be there. Darry picked up the phone, and I told them to meet me at the vacant lot. I don't know why I did that. I guess I had to have them there, at the last moment.  
  
I heard sirens coming, and I began to run again, my feet pumping towards the vacant lot and my heart pounding. The fuzz were after me.  
  
I turned the corner into the vacant lot and ducked around a bench. I could hear other people running (must be the gang, I thought) and tires squealing as the cops surrounded me. Then someone, I think Sodapop or Darry, cried out, "Don't kill him, he's only a kid!" I could feel the police hesitate, though their guns were still raised.  
  
But I wasn't a kid. I hadn't been a kid since I was nine years old. And I thought, How can they kill me? I'm already dead. When Johnny died, I died with him. Now my body was the shell, an empty shell that had to be discarded. The cops won't do it like this, I thought to myself.  
  
I reached into my pocket, where my heater lay. I could hear my voice saying to Pony, "I been carryin' a heater. It ain't loaded, but it sure does help a bluff." But the police didn't know that it wasn't loaded. And that was what I was counting on.  
  
So I raised the gun into the air and smiled in my victory.  
  
And then the shots rang out. 


End file.
